Those That Shape Us
by noenigma
Summary: Who we are is often rooted in the past...glancing back at a few who helped shape the characters we love.
1. For Good or Ill

_I absolutely love the DC Gray story on Lewis The Ramblin' Boy. It sums up my impressions of Robbie Lewis and his long career in a beautiful and fitting way. Perfect really. And begging for us all to flesh it out…I've hesitated to give into its pull knowing I could never give it justice, but all the same it's run around in my brain biding its chance. And it's birthed these little glimpses of those in the past who have shaped our heroes in one way or another, for good or bad…_

_Purely for fan purposes; no copyright infringement intended._

For Good or Ill,

Those that shaped us

Shape us still.

Perhaps, they always will.

_For Good or Ill_

It had been, as he'd one day tell his sergeant, a steady drip of disapproval from his stepmom that had caused a young Morse to contemplate suicide. "You'll never be anything, Endeavour!" she'd said a hundred times, a thousand, before enumerating one fault after another. Oddly enough many of the things she had to complain about his character and his behavior were not things his own mother had found reason to fault, nor even his father. Nor himself. But still her endless refrain ran through his mind even once he'd escaped her house. "You'll never be anything, Endeavour Morse!"

He'd thought, when he'd come up to Oxford and lost himself in its beauty and the headiness of College, that he'd put it behind him finally. And certainly with Susan. He could be anything in Oxford; he could be anything with her. Someone great; or at the least someone to make his dad proud and silence his stepmom. Only he'd lost Susan—"I'm sorry, Morse. You're wonderful, but Henry…" And in the aftermath of her loss, he'd lost Oxford—"You need to step down, just until you're ready to apply yourself to your studies, Morse. As it is you're wasting your time and ours…" And he knew then Gwen's pronouncement still hung over him. "You'll never be anything, Endeavour Morse!"

It chased him into the Signal Corps. And wouldn't that have pleased his Quaker mother? No more than it pleased Gwen as it turned out. Not that he'd expected it to. If he'd become prime minister, she still would have looked at him with disapproval and shaken her head knowingly at him.

He'd done all right in the Corps, but still Gwen's 'You'll never be anything, Endeavour Morse!' had haunted him. He'd not stayed on any longer than necessary. He'd felt by then that he never would settle into a place. That always he'd be the one standing to the side, not sure if he was staying or going, not ever feeling like he'd found where he belonged. That he'd never be able to shake her harsh words. That he would always be that adolescent boy who couldn't help but believe that maybe she was right.

Easy enough to see his parents' divorce, his mother's death, his stepmother's disapproval, the whole mess of his life even before Susan had led to that; impossible to know that he'd yet find his way, that Gwen was woefully wrong. That men like Fred Thursday and Desmond McNutt would see in him what Gwen could never see; that one day he'd be something all right. He'd be the best detective in all of England. That wouldn't be enough to change Gwen's opinion of him, but when he'd risen to the challenge and solved the case, it would be enough for him to know she'd been wrong all the same.


	2. Those Who Shaped Us

_Those Who Shaped Us_

He'd been too young for school himself. Still a tyke under his mam's feet all day or running wild with the others doing the same while their mams chatted over back fences as they hung out the day's laundry or pulled weeds from shabby, struggling flower beds. He'd known less than nothing about the world and all its dangers; only its wonders: warm biscuits, sunlight smiling down after the rain, puddles begging him to splash away, his father's strong arms when he gathered him up into them at the end of the day, his mother's smile that wiped away whatever scolding she'd just given him as she sent him off to run and play.

He knew nothing about the two little girls gone missing from Tyneside or the girl's body found floating in the river only the week before (though he'd heard the mams talking and thought how lucky the girl was to get a nice swim in the water as his own mam was adamant he wasn't to go anywhere near the river). And he knew his sister was late home from school because their afternoon tea had grown cold before his older brother's wheedling had earned them permission to go ahead without her. But he didn't know why his mam's face was pinched and white or why she'd pulled her arms tight around herself as though she was cold. Their Tom hadn't seemed to notice, only grabbed a handful of biscuits and ran off down the street after his mates. But Robbie noticed.

"Always watching, is our Robbie," his mam was wont to say. Robbie was too young to know what much of anything was about, but he took it all in. And that day his sister didn't come home from school, he saw the worry in his mam's face and he heard the breathless sound in her voice. He noted the way she paced and the way she kept stepping out onto the front stoop to frown down the street the way his sister should have come. And for all he was so young, he knew something was wrong.

He was glad when his mam sent Dennis, the big boy from down the street who ran errands for the mams while the dads were off work, to fetch his dad home early. He couldn't remember his dad coming home early ever before except the time when his mam and baby brother had both been so sick the doctor had had to come and give them medicine (Mam had said it was horrible and he wasn't to touch it, but the lolly the doctor had offered Robbie before he'd closed his big, black bag had been very good indeed.) That time his dad came home by way of the chippies, and after they'd scarfed down their tea, he'd stood Robbie on a chair beside their Tom and let them wash up the dishes while he saw to Mam and wee Joe.

This time though, their dad came home empty-handed, banging into the house and striding to their mam's side as though he didn't even see Robbie standing there.

"I've talked to all her mates…none of them's seen her since school let out. She's not one to not come home, you know that!" his mam said, and his dad answered, "Well, it can't be anything. It can't…she'll be around. Ye know kiddies—always losing time, always…" But he let his words trail away and shook his head. "Still. I'll have a wee word with Paddy." He gave Robbie's mam a quick hug and was gone without one word to Robbie or even a pat on the head. Mam followed him to the porch and stared after him.

"Stay inside," she told Robbie when he tried to come out after her. "Find something to do." Robbie stuffed his hands into his pockets and huffed his disappointment, but "Always busy, is our Robbie," was another thing his mam said about him and he had no trouble finding something to do all the same. First he banged about a bit, hoping wee Joe would wake up and call his mam back to them but his younger brother was used to his noise and slept through undisturbed. He took apart and put back together his favourite puzzle. He pointed out and mouthed each word of his favourite book which he knew by heart though he'd not yet learned to read. Then he drew three robots though his heart wasn't in it and only one didn't end up looking like a chicken. He thought about going to the moon, but that was a long way and he'd need his supper first and somehow he didn't think there'd be any supper until his sister came home. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and softly kicked the wall because even he could run out of things to do.

Then his dad was home, murmuring to his mam out on the porch. Robbie stood at the door and tried to hear their choked and quiet conversation.

"I passed the boy and told him to come home," his dad said and sure enough it wasn't long until their Tom stormed through the house and slammed the door to their shared room with a very loud and decisive 'stay out' sort of bang. And that finally woke their Joe; and their mam yelled something cross at the closed door as she passed it on the way to fetch him. Following her in, their dad paused at the door to say, "That's enough, lad. I know ye want to be out with your mates, but we're needing you here at home…no more of that." Robbie frowned at it all. Shut out of his room, Mam in a grump, and Da not acting like himself at all-nothing was right that afternoon.

And it only got worse. Because though his mam bit her lip until it almost bled, there were tears running down her cheeks as she tended to Joe. His dad prowled through the house and small back garden. Both of them hushing Robbie if he made even the slightest sound. They didn't want him singing, they didn't want him dumping his blocks out to build his towers, and even upending his puzzle on the floor earned him a big sigh from his mam. Though it was his sister who usually read to him, his parents always smiled to see him with a book so he hopefully brought one out. His dad scowled and murmured a warning 'Rob' before he'd even gotten to him; his mam started crying all over again. "Sorry, laddie, not now," she said and gathered him up into a hug. But even her hug didn't feel right. It was too tight and a tear dripped into his ear and he was glad enough when she put him straight back down.

There began then a procession of mams from up and down the street, sticking their heads in with fresh biscuits or casseroles or cakes, murmuring in grownup codes to his mam and dad, and saying how they were sure it was nothing to worry about. To which his parents readily agreed, and the grownups would all laugh nervously together and remark on how silly it was to be so worried, and then someone was bound to say something about 'those poor little girls' and his mam would be off crying again and his dad would jump up and prowl about the room like the caged tiger at the zoo. Sooner or later, one mam or another would offer to take the boys out from under foot 'just for a bit.'

Robbie would have happily gone with any of them to escape the bad feeling slowly transforming their house into a place he didn't know. But to each of them his dad said, "Thank you, but their mam needs them home." And they'd gan off leaving Robbie and his family to an uneasy quietness that grew more oppressive as the day began to slip into evening.

Paddy Green, resplendent in his police constable uniform, stopped by before full darkness descended. "Nowt yet, but I've not done looking," he said. "Nowhere else, young Tom, you've thought of that your sister might have wandered off to?" But there wasn't. "Well, that's fine. We'll find her yet. Time for you boys to have your supper, I'd say. Take your brothers to the kitchen and see what the ladies have brought you then, Tom." The boys had run off to do just that though even Robbie knew they'd been sent out of the room so the grownups could talk.

"Are we bad people then, Tom?" Robbie asked his brother as he poked his finger into Mrs. Kirke's fish pie.

"Of course, not!" Tom said. "Whyever would ye ask such a daft thing?"

"Paddy Green's a copper—"

"Well, sure, everyone knows that."

"And he's come to our house."

"So?"

"Coppers come and drag bad people down to the nick…then they bang 'em up!" Robbie couldn't help that his bottom lip began to quiver at the thought. He didn't really know what any of that meant, but he knew well it couldn't be good.

"Well, we're NOT bad people and Paddy Green is not aboot to drag us all down to the nick and bang us up, stupid. That's not ALL coppers do, ye know." Robbie hadn't, but he was so relieved to find it out that he didn't elbow Tom for calling him stupid. "He's here because our Kathy hasn't come home—his job to find out where she's gan off to and bring her back home." Tom snorted derisively. "Ye really think Paddy would drag our wee Joe off to the nick!" But that was just as likely as their Kathy having run off from home. She was a good lass, his sister, and she wouldn't have done.

Tom scowled at him when he told him that though. "You're just a baby, Robbie!" Tom told him crossly even though last year he'd been too young for school himself. "Ye don't know nowt! Shut your gob and eat your supper!" Robbie looked at the plate Tom thunked on the table in front of him and decided he wasn't hungry. He slid down from his chair, and leaving Tom hissing after him to come back, crept quietly to peek through the door at the grownups.

There was something about Paddy Green that had pushed back the oppressiveness around his parents. Maybe it was the uniform or maybe it was the way Paddy talked with quiet assurance. Whatever it was, when Paddy stood with his hat in his hand and said, "She's bound to be aboot, I'll have another look and get her on home," it was almost like their Kathy was already back.

The PC caught sight of Robbie and waved him into the room. "This one's all but grown already. Robbie, isn't it? I've something here for ye I think," he said as he made a show of checking his pockets. Robbie watched him expectantly and hoped it was a lolly like the doctor's, but it was better. Chocolate. A whole piece for Robbie and one for each of his brothers as well. "And," Paddy said, holding up one more and placing it on the sideboard, "One for that sister of yours when she's come home." And Robbie who was far too young to know that sometimes little girls didn't ever come home had grinned happily as he ripped the wrapper off his chocolate and stuffed it into his mouth.

After the door closed behind the constable, the worry settled back over the house. Even wee Joe seemed to feel the mood and was uncharacteristically quiet. Robbie hated the silence, but when he tried to fill it, his dad would look his way and shake his head and his mam wouldn't even seem to hear him. Robbie felt as though he was being smothered by the quiet, by the waiting, by the absence of his sister.

"I should be out looking for her," his dad said, pacing once again. But his mam said, "No! Stay! Don't…I can't be here alone!" Only Robbie and his brothers were right there and she wouldn't have been.

"I could go," Tom offered. "I know where she plays."

"No!" both Mam and Da all but shouted at him. "You told Paddy where to look. That's enough, Tom…we need you here at home," his dad said and that was that. And then there was only the oppressive quietness, and his mam's sniffling, and the waiting.

And then, there were footsteps on the porch and there was Paddy at the door, stooping low to keep from knocking his hat off, with their Kathy in his arms. His mam and dad were laughing and everyone was talking at once and all was right in the house once again.

"Thank you," his mam told Paddy for not the first time, and he nodded his welcome and said, "What we're here for." Which Robbie reckoned was a fine thing. Coppers might haul bad people down to the nick and bang them up, but they also found little girls who stopped off to watch a nest of baby rabbits instead of coming straight home and fell asleep in the warm afternoon sun and woke up in the dark not sure of the way home. They pushed back the worry and made crying mam's laugh and brought chocolates to little boys.

When three days later Paddy Green pitched a perfect game at the Saturday cricket, Robbie's future was decided. Robbie Lewis was going to grow up and be a copper just like Paddy Green.


	3. Shape Us Still

He'd loved her since they were seven.

He'd known even at that tender age he didn't stand a chance. She'd be Lady Scarlet one day; he'd be—well, who knew what he'd be? Not an estate manager like his own dad, but not the lord of an estate like hers either. And anything less than that would never do for Scarlet. He'd known that then; he knew it now. But knowing had not stopped him from loving her at seven and in a few, short minutes catching up on old times he discovered it didn't now that he was well past his majority either.

He'd helplessly spent his youth trying to become the sort of man Scarlet could love. He'd learned to speak the right way and wear the right clothes, to carry himself like a gentleman and behave like one as well…as near as he could. He'd learned what they learned and did what he could to think the way they thought.. For all the good it had done. It had succeeded at putting a barrier between him and the other children on the estate, at making him stand out like a sore thumb in seminary and the police force and most everywhere else he'd ever belonged, and, according to his inspector, in making him too posh for the Foreign Legion.

But as for winning the hand of the fair Lady Scarlet…he'd been a silly boy at seven, but at least he'd known he was fighting a hopeless battle then. These few heady days when he'd returned to Crevecoeur as a man and let himself believe there really was a chance for him with Scarlet—he'd not been silly. He'd been a fool. A posh, well-educated, well-spoken fool.

"What about you and me? What was that? Your way of getting close to the investigation?" he'd asked her. And he'd wanted the answer to be anything but what she gave him.

"You didn't really think…you're not one of us." No. He wasn't one of them. For all his trying, he wasn't one of them and never would be. But. Did he imagine the regret he could see in her eyes? Noblesse oblige…she'd been brought up on that ideal. She _had_ to marry a man she didn't love to save Crevecoeur, she _had_ to help cover up a murder to protect her father…and Paul as well—he'd killed again and again because he _had_ to protect the family. Was Hathaway an even bigger fool if a part of him couldn't help but believe—or want to believe—that those final, crushing words were full of her regret and they too were words she _had_ to say? Not for her father, not for Crevecoeur, but for _him_.

"Don't get tangled up with us, James," she'd told him, "I mean it. Turn your back and run. For your own sake." He hadn't taken her warning seriously, and even if he had it came two and a half decades too late. But maybe she'd meant every word of it; and maybe her cutting 'you're not one of us' was her way of saving him from himself—not unlike the leave Lewis had imposed on him against his will the minute he realized Hathaway had gotten himself entangled with Scarlet in the midst of their investigation. That leave had saved Hathaway's career, and those words of Scarlet's…fool or not he wanted to believe they were to save Hathaway a lifetime of heartache.

And he did believe it because back when they'd been seven there'd been no hope for him. But there'd also been none for her; for she'd loved him too. Then and now. And somehow believing that, knowing that, hurt more than believing himself a fool.


	4. Perhaps, They Always Will

_"He doesn't remember it; I'll never forget," DC Gray told the young couple. A statement of fact and a promise to himself and to that policeman who'd held out a helping hand to him when he'd needed it all those years before._

The white-haired man with the cold, blue eyes that drilled into him and then turned away dismissively as though Alex had nothing to offer, nothing to give, that was the detective he'd seen first. Standing there in the circle outside his dad's flat with the flashing lights and the police vehicles all about, it was easy enough to see that man was the one in charge. The one that would make sense of this nightmare turning his life upside down and inside out and leaving him with nothing.

With a nod of his white head, the man had motioned towards Alex. "The son, Lewis," he'd said and then he'd turned and walked back into the flat. As though with that one piercing look he'd seen all he needed to see to know nothing Alex could tell him would be a help. That it would be a waste of time to even bother talking to him. And the white-haired man was right. Alex couldn't begin to understand, let alone explain, how or why his father was lying in a pool of blood in the hallway of his tiny flat. Useless he'd be to the detective trying to solve his dad's murder; useless like he'd always been.

Years younger than the white-haired detective, inches taller, another sort of man entirely was the man who had turned his way and nodded before moving towards Alex. Shivering in his too-light jacket, Alex had stood there waiting for the man to come for him. He couldn't have run if he'd wanted; he'd somehow become rooted to the spot. Frozen in the moment as much as the freezing rain. Surrounded by the milling crowd of onlookers but totally alone. His dad hadn't been much, but he'd been his dad. Now there was only Alex and his mum, and if his dad hadn't been much, his mum was that much less.

The man when he'd reached Alex had smiled at him. Well, perhaps it hadn't been a smile. Not there with his dad lying dead in the hallway of his small flat. No, but it had felt like when some kind and friendly sort smiled his way. Warm. Or maybe that had just been the hand the man had placed on his shoulder? Reassured. Which could just as easily have been the soft, gentle understanding and compassion in the man's voice. Looking back, trying to make sense of the muddle of that day, Alex couldn't say for sure whether Lewis had smiled at him when they'd met, but he might as well have done.

"Alex, is it?" he'd asked in that way of his which to Alex's ears had first sounded straight out of Auf Wiedersehen Pet though he'd soon caught onto it. "Sergeant Lewis, Thames Valley CID…I'm sorry. About your dad."

"Yeah," he worked out. "Me, too."

"We've spoken to your mam. She said it was all right, you talking to us."

"Is she coming?" he asked though he knew the answer was no before the sergeant dropped his gaze and set his mouth in a frown. Even death wouldn't wipe away all the hurtful things his parents had done to one another. They wouldn't be forgotten until both his parents were in the grave, and they'd remain unforgiven long past the time their bodies had rotted away. His mum wouldn't be coming for him, not if by coming it might look like she cared even the slightest bit about his dad. He'd have to find his own way home.

As though the sergeant had read his mind, he said, "If we could just have a word…then I'll see you get home, all right?" Alex nodded. The rain was turning into a sharp, biting sleet. He might be useless, but he wasn't a fool. He'd welcome the lift home.

"They've let us set up in the empty flat next door to your dad's. There's a kettle on," Lewis said herding him through the thinning crowd of onlookers. The flat was so much like his dad's that he faltered when it came time to step past the hallway into the kitchen. Without missing a step himself, Lewis had moved beside him, blocking his view, keeping him from having to glance down that way and see in his mind's eye his dad's lifeless body crumpled on the floor next door in that puddle of congealing blood.

"Tea will it be then?" Lewis had asked him as they reached the kitchen. "Only I think there's some coffee as well—the powdered stuff? If you'd rather?"

"Tea'll be fine," Alex answered. It didn't matter though. How could he possibly drink something with his dad lying dead? Still, he'd welcome the warmth of the cup in his cold-numbed hands. The flat was empty so there was no table, no chairs, just the countertop to lean against. Alex picked the spot closest to the steaming kettle. It probably was no warmer than the rest of the room, but…

"Ah, a bit nippy out there, eh?" Lewis had said, rubbing his hands together as though he too felt the cold seeping into his very bones. "I'll just bump the heat up a bit, shall I? You go ahead and pour the tea—" and with that Lewis had turned away as though he knew that Alex needed that rising bit of steam to warm him as he poured the water from the kettle and a bit of time to hold his hands hovering just above the warm kettle. And had Lewis known? Had that too been a kindness to the bedraggled and bereft boy Alex had been? More than likely, yes.

And wherever Lewis had gone to 'bump up the heat' he'd also found two cellophane-wrapped sandwiches and a packet of crisps. Lewis' lunch no doubt, dropped casually on the counter with an off-hand, "Thought we might have a bite with our tea," as though he made a habit of munching his way through interviews with suspects and victims' families. As though he knew Alex's mum had spent the last of the food money at the corner liquor store instead of the market, and he'd come to his dad's flat hoping for a handout as much or more than he'd come for the company. Still, his dad was dead, and Alex had been unable to imagine food would ever matter to him again. He'd left the sandwiches and crisps where they fell.

"Mine's two sugars, and yours?" Lewis had asked motioning to the sugar packets and plastic spoons beside the cooker. Because even if Alex had had no stomach for tea, the sergeant had? Or just one more small kindness on top of all the others? One more moment before he'd be required to lay the whole sorry state of his useless life out?

"None for me, ta," he'd said, but the cup of hot tea Lewis pressed into his hand that afternoon which he'd found himself mindlessly sipping whenever the questions demanded an answer almost too hard to choke out had been chockfull of sweetness. (He'd learn that himself as a young cop, adding loads of sugar to the tea for those who'd received a nasty shock—kept them on their feet instead of keeling over on their faces.) And that cup of tea…well, there'd been a lot of questions, and he could vaguely remember staring into the bottom of his cup trying to face one question and sipping from a full cup the next. He'd bet money that somewhere in there, though he'd been too distraught to notice, Lewis had exchanged his own for Alex's.

A sandwich had appeared in his hand the same way. He'd taken a bite before he'd even realized it, anything to not have to look into Lewis' eyes and say what needed said. But that first bite had reminded him of just how long it had been since his last meal. He'd made short work of the rest…both of them and the crisps and the half packet of Polo mints Lewis had dug out of his pocket and handed him without a word. And by the time he'd ate the lot…he'd answered all of Lewis' questions.

Emptied out even the bits of lint from his own life's pockets so to speak. Looking at all the bits and pieces of his life there in that empty kitchen with Lewis…well, somehow they didn't look quite as bad as he'd thought they would. Oh, there were the sticky bits he'd gladly have disowned, and the rubbish he should have tossed into the bin instead of carrying about with him. But, there'd been more. Memories of the good times with his dad that he would cling to through the years; reminders of the times he'd made his dad proud, times he'd made his dad smile. They'd not amounted to much, but they'd been something.

(And what he'd been too young and inexperienced to know then, he'd know soon enough. Those precious bits—those memories that might have been lost if Lewis hadn't prompted him to remember—they were a kindness as well. That day fishing with his dad, the only day they'd ever spent fishing, the one when he'd actually caught a fish and his dad had carried him home on his shoulders like a champion…it hadn't meant a thing to the investigation. But it had meant a great deal to Alex. A gift Lewis had given him that he needn't have; taking time he really hadn't had in the midst of a murder investigation to listen to a grieving boy.)

"Lewis! Must you be all day?" the white-haired man in charge had said from the door. He'd scowled as he looked around at the remains of Lewis' lunch and shook his head in disgust. "Really, Lewis. Can't you eat at home? We do have a murder to investigate!" he'd said before stalking off.

Alex had been ready to apologize for landing Lewis in hot water, but Lewis had grinned.

"Can't do without me long, the chief inspector," he'd said, and Alex had done what earlier that afternoon he'd thought he'd never do again. He'd laughed. And then the two of them had gathered up the rubbish and stacked the cups in the sink, and Lewis had rounded up a constable to drive him home in a nice, dry, warm car.

They'd all added up, those little kindnesses that day and those that followed in those first painful weeks after he'd lost his dad. Most so casual and so offhand that almost Alex could have believed it really was happenstance that put Lewis in just the right place at just the right time to give Alex a lift on the coldest, rainiest evenings or led him to buy extra fish and chips at the chippies and find he simply couldn't eat them all just when he noticed Alex coming his way. And some painfully and patently not casual at all; it had been Lewis standing beside Alex that day at the coroner's and sitting beside him at the inquest. Because his mum wouldn't and there'd been no one else.

None of it had brought his dad back, none of it had changed the wretchedness of Alex's life, but Alex's life had been changed nonetheless.

_"Is that's why you became a police officer?" the girl asked._

_"Yeah," Gray said._

_*#*#*#*#*#_

_This one is for my daughter-in-law who every moment of every day fights the epic and exhausting battle of facing down the voices of those who shaped her telling her she's unworthy of even the simplest of life's pleasures: food, sleep, love, a moment to relax, an afternoon to read a book…and still manages to be a lovely, kind, and funny young woman who is everything we could ask for our son. (Emma Woolf's _An Apple a Day: A Memoir of Love and Recovery from Anorexia_ is an achingly painful account worth the reading if you, like us, love someone with anorexia.)_


End file.
